The Mystery of the Stolen Secrets

©2017 Richard Humphreys

It's going to be a white Christmas and Fatty's Uncle Harold comes to stay. However, before long Fatty begins to notice that his uncle is acting suspiciously. Why did he go out secretly in the middle of the night? Did he steal some keys from a local house agents' office? Who is the man with a limp? The Find Outers get on the case and are soon embroiled in a mystery that involves spies, stolen secrets and a dangerous chase along the river in the dead of night...

Chapter 12: Mr Goon's Unpleasant Surprises

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As he made his way down the back lane, it started to snow again and by the time he arrived at Artisan Passage, it had turned into a blizzard, and his feet were freezing because of the holes in his boots.

He went straight to the back of the cottage and pulled the two loose planks off, then raised the sash window and climbed inside. The kitchen looked far dirtier than it had before, because, with the planks now lying on the ground outside, more light filled the room revealing its complete squalor. Fatty began to look around. An old table and four chairs, all of which were covered with dust, were the only pieces of furniture. Set into the chimneybreast was a filthy, grease covered black cooking range with a heavy cast iron saucepan on top, and next to this was a built in cupboard which Fatty opened. There was nothing inside except for a few spiders that scuttled away into its dark corners.

Finding nothing of interest, he went into the sitting room at the front of the house where he carefully examined the sofa. Lifting the cushions, he pushed his hands down around the springs, feeling around for anything that may have slipped down. Working carefully from one side to the other, he pulled out plenty of fluff and a couple of old sweet papers. However, right at the end he suddenly felt something hard. He carefully gripped it with his fingertips and pulled it out, it was a coin. Because the sitting room was quite dark, he carried it back into the kitchen and examined it by the window. It was a Borovian ten lep piece. He slipped it into his pocket and then went upstairs to the small back bedroom where he had found the envelope in the fire grate. Once again, he sorted through the charred and torn fragments. Eventually, he found a small piece of blue airmail envelope and took it to the window to examine it. It was singed and crumpled, but he could clearly make out the name E. Digby.

'So, this was sent to Mr Digby,' he thought. 'Now why was it sent to this empty run-down cottage, surely Mr Digby never lived here.'

Then he remembered reading in one of his books that sometimes criminals sent secret letters to empty houses, where they were collected by their accomplices. So, is Uncle Harold a criminal and Digby his accomplice? Uncle Harold had told him that Digby was a publisher interested in publishing his memoirs, but surely this cannot be true, which must mean that Uncle Harold had lied.

Before leaving the room, Fatty sorted through the remaining papers, but found nothing more of interest, so went into the front bedroom and looked around again. He lifted the pile of rags that lay in the corner. At one time, they must have been curtains, now they were dirty, torn and smelly. He looked at the ladder that stood propped against the wall. 'What is it doing here?' he asked himself as he examined it. It was made of paint-splattered wood and was the type that could be extended. Fatty then noticed that there were cobwebs all around the walls and yet none on the ladder. He ran his hand across its rungs and looking at his fingers, saw that they were more or less free of dust. There were a couple of snails stuck to its legs as though it had been kept outside and only recently brought into the cottage. 'I bet it was in that tumble-down shed in the back garden,' Fatty thought, 'and it was brought in here for a purpose, but what I wonder?'

It was now getting dark outside and he had forgotten to bring a torch, so he decided to go back home. He went back down to the kitchen and climbed out through the window, which he then lowered behind him. Having carefully replaced the planks of wood, he decided to take a quick look in the garden shed. In the dim light, he could just make out marks on the cement floor that looked as though the ladder had lain there for a long time before it had been moved. There was nothing else to see, and just as he was about to leave the shed, he heard a noise outside. Fatty peered through the door and saw a figure approaching the kitchen window. Whoever it was, had a torch, which they shone over the ground. Fatty's footprints were quite visible in the snow, and they led to the shed.

As the beam of light from the torch flashed across the shed door, Fatty jumped back into the shadows. He could hear someone's feet crunching in the snow as they approached.

'You come along out, I know you're in there,' a man's voice called, and to his horror, Fatty realised it was Goon's.

Fatty looked around desperately trying to find an escape route, but there was none. He would have to brazen this out so he hunched his shoulders and stepped through the doorway into the light of the torch.

'I ain't done nothing,' he said in a gruff voice. 'Honest I ain't.'

Goon flashed his torch over Fatty. 'This 'ere is private property,' he said sternly, 'and you, my man, are trespassing.'

'I'm only looking for a place to kip for the night, that's all,' Fatty said. 'You wouldn't begrudge an old soldier a place to kip, what with it being Christmas and all. I'm perishing cold, I am.' Fatty then coughed. 'I reckon my old trouble's coming on again.'

'Don't start giving me a sob story, I'm not interested,' Goon said heartlessly. 'Now turn your pockets out.'

This was awkward for Fatty as he had the piece of envelope in his pocket and certainly did not want Goon to find it, he might ask some difficult questions.

'Turn out me pockets, you say?' Fatty said and coughed some more. 'There ain't nothing in me pockets.'

'If that's the case,' Goon said, 'you'll be the first tramp I've come across with empty pockets. Now turn 'em out.' He came closer. 'Come on turn 'em out, or else,' he repeated threateningly.

Fatty began to fumble around in his pockets and then succumbed to a fit of coughing. Goon lost his patience and began tugging at one of Fatty's coat pockets.

'Geroff,' Fatty said and then gave a very good impression of a sneeze straight into Mr Goon's face.

Goon immediately jumped back. 'You filthy pig,' he snarled and took a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face.

Quickly, Fatty took the piece of envelope from his pocket and slipped it under his hat.

'I hope you don't go and catch Bangawonga Green Swamp Fever from me,' Fatty said making up an awful sounding tropical disease. 'I've had it on and off for years, can't seem to get rid of it.'

Goon stared at him, horrified. 'What you talking about? Bangawonga Green Swamp Fever, what's that?'

'An 'orrible disease,' Fatty said shaking his head. 'I picked it up during the Great War when I was out in Africa. When you gets an attack of it, you turns green.'

Goon repeatedly wiped his face with his handkerchief. 'What, and you just sneezed in my face?' he said, his voice cracking.

'Yeah, sorry about that,' Fatty said, clearly enjoying Goon's discomfort. 'Course, there's always a slim chance you won't catch it,' he added reassuringly. 'I was just unlucky, I 'spose,'

Goon had backed well away. 'You get out of here, go on clear orf,' he shouted. 'And keep going, I want you out of this village, do you hear me?'

'Yeah, I hear you,' Fatty said and plodded across the back yard. As he passed Goon, he stopped and turned towards him. 'Merry Christmas,' he said and then gave another almighty sneeze.

Goon almost jumped out of his skin. 'Go on clear orf and take your germs with you,' he yelled as Fatty disappeared round the side of the cottage, loudly whistling 'Green Grow the Rushes O'.

Once back in the street, Fatty began laughing and headed home as fast as he could. He let himself in through the back gate and slipped into his shed. It was now dark and he had to light the lamp in order to remove his makeup properly, and having changed and cleaned his face, he went back up the garden path and in through the garden door.

Mr Goon also hurried home, arriving to find the place empty and in darkness. 'Mrs Boggs,' he yelled as he went through the front door. 'Where is that accursed woman?' he snapped as he threw off his overcoat and rushed upstairs to the bathroom. He washed his face thoroughly and then examined it in the mirror, looking for any signs of green. Finding none, he returned to his sitting room and banked up the fire, which had almost gone out, and having got a good blaze going, went into the kitchen. He made himself a cup of tea, and in the larder found a piece of apple pie, which he ate.

'Where's that woman got to?' he muttered as he washed up his cup and saucer. 'What does she think I pay her for? It's gone seven o'clock and no sign of her.'

Just then there was a knock at the door.

'Now what?' Goon muttered as he went to answer it.

He opened the door and found Boris standing on the doorstep looking very sorry for himself. 'What do you want?' Goon snapped.

'I've got a message from my Nan,' Boris replied. 'Can I come in Mr Goon, I'm ever so cold?'

Goon opened the door wider and beckoned him into the hall. 'Now then, what's all this about?' he asked.

'Well, it's like this,' Boris began and started to snivel. 'She fell over in the snow and hurt her leg and banged her head. She had to go to the hospital and they said she has to stay in there for a few days.'

Goon cursed under his breath. 'Right, well you've passed on the message,' he said opening the door again, 'so now you can clear orf.'

Boris remained where he was. 'She told me to give you this,' he said pulling a folded sheet of writing paper from his pocket and handing it to Goon. 'It's a note.'

Goon read the note and his face grew red. 'Can I look after you till she comes out of hospital?' he yelled. 'The cheek of it.'

'I've got nowhere else to go, Mr Goon,' Boris whined. 'My Mum's in hospital too and my dad can't have me home 'cause my brothers have got flu and he can't cope and my other Nan don't want me 'cause she's gone away to Butlins for Christmas.'

Without a word, Goon walked over to the telephone and picking up the receiver, began to dial. 'The orphanage can have you,' he said unfeelingly. 'I don't want you here.'

'Nan also said I was to mention to you about you drinking in the Red Lion after hours,' Boris said.

Goon immediately stopped dialling, replaced the receiver and swept into his office with Boris following in his wake. He sat behind his desk and stared at the boy. 'How long did you say your Nan was going to be in hospital?'

'Nan said the doctors said a few days,' Boris replied looking round the room and noticing the brass whistle on the mantelpiece.

'You can have three days,' Goon said. 'That's all, just three days and after that I'll be packing you off to the orphanage, do you understand?'

'Yes, Mr Goon, thank you, Mr Goon,' Boris said with a sickly smile.

'And don't think I'm going to put up with you sponging off me, neither,' Goon said wagging his finger. 'You're going to earn your keep, my boy. You can clean the house, scrape the snow from both front and back, run errands, clean my bike and boots,' he paused and thought for a moment. 'Can you cook?' he asked.

Boris, who was feeling rather shell-shocked at this long list of chores, simply shook his head.

'But you can make a cup of tea, surely,' Goon yelled.

Boris nodded.

'Right, then. You can sleep in the little bedroom at the back, the one my nephew Ern uses when he stays. Starting tomorrow, I want you in bed by six and up by seven,' Goon said.

'I think I need more than an hour's sleep, Mr. Goon,' Boris said weakly.

'I mean seven next morning, you dolt,' Goon snapped. 'Then you can make me a cup of tea and bring it up. Milk and three sugars.' He stood and walked over to Boris, towering over the small boy. 'I expect you'll have to go back to your Nan's to get your pyjamas and toothbrush?'

Boris nodded.

'And bring a towel back as well, I'm not sharing one of mine with the likes of you. And when you get back you can have something to eat. I'm having a couple of kippers for supper and you can have their heads and tails with a bit of bread and butter.' He bent down over the boy and put his face close to Boris'. 'Now then, I want you to look very carefully at my face and tell me if it's turning green.'

Boris was frightened. 'Green, Mr Goon?' he asked nervously, thinking Goon might have lost his sanity.

'Yes, green,' Goon snapped. 'Well, is it?'

Boris shook his head. 'No Mr Goon,' he said backing away slightly. 'It don't look green to me. Should it?'

'Course not, you idiot,' Goon said straightening up. 'Now, go on, hop it.'

Convinced that Mr Goon really was mad, Boris walked briskly to the front door and let himself out. He was hungry and kipper heads and tails did not sound very appetising. He was, however, cheered up by the thought that there was plenty of food in Nan's larder and he would bring it all back with him and keep it hidden in his bedroom. If left, it would only go bad, so he would be doing his Nan a favour. She would not want to return home from hospital to a larder full of bad and stale food! There was a chicken pie and an apple pie only just started, a fruitcake and a nice piece of cheddar and some scones and teacakes. Boris would certainly not go hungry for the next few days as long as he could keep the food away from Mr Goon who would most definitely take it all for himself. All the jobs Mr Goon had mentioned seemed rather daunting, but Boris was cunning and would get away with doing as little as possible. Yes, Boris thought as he trudged through the snow, the next few days would be just fine.

But Boris was wrong, because things were about to become anything but fine.

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